Pin Down the Stars
by ShadowFox197
Summary: Its December 1940 in London, and the Blitz is in full swing. Alfred and Arthur find themselves stuck together at a London Medical camp after Alfred gets himself injured. Now Alfred and Arthur find out just the extent of pain that war can bring. Human names used. Some pairing if you squint.


Okay! This is my first Fanfiction ever~ so I would really appreciate if you are nice if you review...So...I originally wrote this for my English narrative, that's why it may seem a little 'by the book' or overly formal or whatever, but I tried to tone down some of the explaining since you people already know who the characters are and their backgrounds and etc.

By the way, characters are human and human names are used. The only thing I changed was Mattthew's name. Now it's Matthew Jones so my English teacher wouldn't be confused ('cause Alfred and Matthew are brothers in this story~).

~anyways hope you

Pin down the Stars

_December 14, 1940 (Flashback)_

Alfred checked the review mirror of the p-51 Mustang Fighter Plane #619. Alfred and his twin brother Matthew were currently cruising 10,000 feet above the foothills surrounding the city of London. The month was December; the open cockpit fighter plane allowed for the cool clouds to wash over the American brothers as they scanned around their aircraft for any movement. Suddenly Matthew broke the silence.

"Alfred?" Alfred hummed in response. "Have you ever noticed how all the trees look like broccoli from this height?" Stunned by the odd question, Alfred said nothing for a few moments.

"Umm…" Alfred said, looking down, "yeah…I guess you're right. I never really thought about it."

"Broccoli reminds me of Acacia. I miss her." Matthew stated simply, referring to his girlfriend living in New York, back home.

"Don't think about her Matt. I don't like it when you get all depressed; I think depression is contagious."

"And you're a psychologist. I still miss her."

Alfred sighed. "Matt, you're a great guy, and you're super considerate and nice to people. You always listen to Acacia too; don't worry, she'll be waiting for you back home. Just wait." Matthew nodded, looking very small and childish from his seat behind Alfred. A light hearted chuckle escaped Alfred's lips. It was so unlike his brother to ask him a question, much less a question about girls. If anything, Alfred would be the one asking Matthew for advice on girls.

Noticing his radar had stopped scanning; Alfred quickly tapped the small screen with a gloved finger. Concern crossed his face at the thought of the new technology failing. It resumed its circular motion. Spontaneously, three dark gray aircrafts came bursting from the clouds above the two brothers. Alfred maneuvered automatically, jammed the joystick forward and forcing the plane into a steep dive, the gray German planes hot in pursuit. The light hearted atmosphere vanished. As the planes fell towards the earth, twirling around each other, gravity seemed to reverse and Alfred's stomach flew to his mouth. One of the German planes fell directly behind the brother's plane, the other two flanking it on either side. Forced to continue downwards, Alfred stole a quick glace behind him, to see Matthew clutching his missile controls with his jaw set in determination, all childishness gone from his face. Matthew gave a slight nod of the head when he noticed his brother looking at him. Alfred took a deep breath to calm his rushing heart and looked directly in front of them. They were trained for this. Whether he liked it or not, Alfred and Matthew were trained to take down German airplanes.

Counting aloud, Alfred said, "On three bro…Alpha maneuver to the left…One….Two... ….Three." All hell broke loose as Alfred twisted the Mustang up to the left of one of the German aircraft, giving Matthew a clear shot at the plane. Matthew took it down with a quick shot into the right wing. This gave the brothers an opening to take down the second plane. Matthew shot one of the propellers with practiced aim. The burning planes spiraled down into the field thousands of feet below. Alfred turned his attention to the last German aircraft. The only problem was that the plane wasn't there.

Swiveling his head around to look for the plane, Alfred found to his horror that the German aircraft was directly behind them again, only this time with machine guns at the ready. Time seemed to slow down. Alfred sensed the trigger getting pulled, propelling the deadly shards of metal at their plane. Alfred watched as the bullets came through the back end of their plane, destroying half of it. Flames exploded around the impact zone, singeing Alfred's hair and making his eyes water. He didn't even register that his left shoulder had been hit.

A weak "Matthew" escaped from his lips. Alfred was unaware of his body slamming into the dash board from the impact of the bullets. He heard Matthew scream out in pain and knew he was hurt. Blood dripped from Matthew's head and onto his hands, which were burned and black. Adrenaline overtook Alfred's body, pumping thick and strong through his blood. He gripped the joystick and hunted for the enemy. Suddenly the German aircraft appeared in front of him. Alfred launched an assault with no mercy. The German plane dodged and shot a round of bullets at the Mustang, clipping its right wing. Alfred punched the dashboard in frustration, shouting profanities and bruising his fist. Alfred then seemed to snap back into reality. Shaking slightly, Alfred regained control of the damaged plane as it slowly spiraled to the ground and made a very clumsy landing in the field below him. Alfred quickly stumbled around the plane to the back where his brother was sitting slumped forward in his seat. Alfred hacked up blood as he climbed onto the burning wing of the plane to shake Matthew.

"Mattie! Mattie! Wake up bro! WAKE UP!" Alfred latched onto Matthew's military uniform and shook the dying man. Matthew's head lolled forward and his blue eyes blinked open. The horrible stench of blood and burned hair filled Alfred's nostrils.

"Hey…" Matthew whispered weakly.

"Mattie…" Alfred sniffed, whipping the tears from his brothers dirt covered face. Matthews bleeding hand stopped Alfred's.

"Alfred…" Matthew continued "You're bleeding…"

"What?" Alfred said, tears threatening to fall.

"You're bleeding, you need to bandage it up or else you're going… to pass out… Take this…" Matthew said. Matthew struggled to take off his brown military bomber jacket, but failed. Alfred gently pushed his twin back into his seat. Seeing his brother so weak made his heart break. "Well…" Matthew said giving a raspy cough, "Will you take this for me?" He pawed at a silver plane shaped pin attached to the collar of his jacket. _Matthew William Jones_ _Fighter Pilot #619 _was inscribed along the planes outstretched wings.

"It`s yours Mattie" Alfred said, remembering when both he and his brother had received the identical pins when they had completed flight school. Memories from childhood flooded back to Alfred's mind, bringing the tears he had been resisting to the corners of his eyes. Graduating High School, Prom that year, baseball as a kid, Matthew smiling, Matthew laughing; all at once everything rushed back to Alfred. Still resisting those tears threatening to overflow onto his cheeks, Alfred looked down at his arm. Red had soaked through his dark uniform. Nauseous from looking at his wound, Alfred looked back at Matthew.

"Keep it" Matthew said, sighing as he learned back into his chair. Alfred took the silver pin from Matthew's jacket and pinned it over his heart, next to his own silver pin. Tears finally came as he remembered everything he had been through with Matthew, how much Matthew's smile had brightened his life every day, how much Matthew had helped him. Alfred cried out as his wounds suddenly announced themselves and Alfred gasped for breath as pain turned his vision red. He coughed up more blood and clutched his ribs, which he realized were broken.

When he looked back up at Matthew, Matthew was looking at him with concern, but said with determination "I want you to finish the job…" and with that he closed his eyes and a peaceful smile formed on his face. Alfred cried out in anguish and slipped off the plane wing to the ground. His last ounce of energy vanished as he looked up to where Mattie was now; blue sky and fluffy clouds. But then the German airplane, with number 619 painted on the bottom of it flew overhead. Alfred's vision dimmed, but he remembered the number. _Finish the job_ were the last words remembered by Alfred as he lost consciousness in the pool of blood forming around his body.

_One day later 06:23 December 15 1940 (End of Flashback)_

23 year old Arthur Kirkland sighed as he sat back in the metal chair and stared at the canvas tent ceiling above him. It was precisely 06:23 in the morning on the 15th of December 1940. He was a medic at the main London camp. World War II was in full swing, and the Germans were now directly attacking Britain. The Blitz, as it was called, had been going on for over three months. All the children of England had been sent out to the country so they would be safe from the bombing. However, thousands of citizens and civilians died and were dying in the bombings by the Germans. It was Arthur's job to try to keep them alive. Arthur, being the loner that he was, felt like it was his responsibility to help save the lives of the other Englishmen fighting in the War. He figured being a medic would be his best option for saving lives.

Arthur crossed one leg over the other and let out another _humph_ of annoyance. He was supposed to have retrieved his next group of patients at 6:15. It was now 6:25. Arthur checked his watch again, and rolled his green eyes to the open flap at the end of the tent. Just at that moment, a gentleman dressed in a green jumpsuit entered with a bewildered look on his face. In his hand was a manila folder. Arthur pushed off his seat to retrieve the folder, eyeing his comrade warily. The man avoided eye contact while saluting, then exited the tent in silence.

Arthur then looked at the folder in his hand. He had never received a folder on a patient. Strands of blond hair fell in front of his eyes as he looked down. He opened the folder expecting to see documents with medical history, but was surprised to find a handsome face staring back up at him. Clipped over another piece of paper was a black and white picture of a young man, maybe around the age of 19, who looked to have golden hair, and eyes the color of the sky. A shadow of a smirk played across the young man's mouth as he stared with intensity at the camera. Flipping the page over, Arthur then saw the man's military health file. Skimming down the page he read that the man's name was Alfred F. Jones, and he was indeed 19 years old. He was a fighter pilot of middle status and was apparently in good health conditions when he joined the air force. Reading down further Arthur noted that Alfred was an…American. Arthur's heart sank and his eyes narrowed

"Not an American!" Arthur thought.

Though the British were allied with America in the war, Arthur couldn't help but feel a grudge against the nation. From his experience with the other Americans lurking around camp, they all seemed to be obnoxious and oblivious. They had no respect for England and were much too loud for Arthur's taste.

Sulking out of the tent, Arthur turned towards his commander's office. Arthur thought maybe he could switch patients with another medic, though he was still wondering on why he had gotten a specific person. Usually 20 men just showed up, and he'd have to keep them from bleeding to death.

On his way to the commander's tent, Arthur paused at the sight of an airplane being unloaded. On a ramp through the back of a plane a gurney was being rolled down. On it seemed to be a man struggling against the black straps fastening him down to the portable bed. Curious, Arthur changed his course and began walking towards the struggling man. Upon closer inspection, Arthur saw that the man was bleeding heavily from a wound in his left shoulder.

"Let me go LET ME GO! I need to go save Mattie! LET ME GO!" the man on the gurney screamed. Arthur promptly sped up. This guy was crazy, but his comrades needed help. Joining the three other men circled around the man's gurney, Arthur grabbed the man's thrashing arm and pinned it down to the bed. It took all of the Brits strength just to hold down the one crazed man's arm.

"Bloody hell!" Arthur thought, "This guy is strong!"

"LET ME GO!" the man screamed again, throwing his head back and nearly knocking himself out by having hit the metal pole surrounding the gurney.

Getting an idea, Arthur quickly let the man's arm go and reached into his medical pack tied around his waist for emergencies. If he remembered correctly, he had a dose of ether that would knock the man out for a few minutes. Finding the bottle, he shoved it under the man's nose. The man struggled for a few moments before taking a lungful of the chemical and going completely still. The three other men each holding a limb relaxed with stunned looks of gratitude on their faces.

"You're welcome." Arthur said gruffly, taking a step back and nodding his head slightly.

Arthur then turned on his heel, picked up the manila file on Alfred F. Jones, whoever that was, and walked towards his commander's office. However, as Arthur reached the manila folder, his hand froze. He turned around and looked at the unconscious man lying on the gurney. Dirty blond hair covered the majority of his face, so Arthur took the pen from his coat pocket and flicked it off. Predictably, Arthur realized that it was Alfred F. Jones, the man that Arthur was responsible for caring for. Suddenly disgusted, Arthur whipped his pen off and stalked away without another word, leaving his comrades confused.

_06:50_

Arthur's head was in his hands. What he had thought to be ether, a chemical used during surgeries to knock out the patient, had in fact been a different chemical. Now Alfred was in a coma, and had potentially lost some of his memory. Arthur realized this, so he had stayed with Alfred to see that he woke up. Arthur was seated in another chair in another tent with Alfred on the gurney in the middle of it. To Arthur's great annoyance, his commander had insisted on Arthur's care for Alfred. He had stated that they were on a shortage for medics, but he could provide an assistant medic to help Arthur in the care for Alfred since Alfred was a "special case". The assistant medic there to 'help' Arthur was Francis. Long time nemesis's, Arthur was not looking forward to seeing the French man again.

One thing his commander had provided that was _useful_, was permission to restrain Alfred if he got out of hand again, basically meaning that Arthur could punch him in the face to knock him out.

Arthur stared at the limp American laying on the gurney. To his surprise Alfred seemed to have a tan, though how he had gotten a tan in England escaped Arthur.

Arthur had already changed Alfred's bandages on his arm and around his torso. Like he had expected, Alfred's arm had a few bullet wounds, two of the bullets were still embedded in his arm. Arthur needed the American to be knocked out though when performing the surgery, and he didn't know when Alfred was going to wake up. So he waited.

Francis, Arthur's 26 year old assistant medic, came flamboyantly into the tent at that moment. He flipped his shoulder length wavy blond hair, and then announced in an overly dramatic voice that he had arrived.

"Obviously," Arthur thought dryly.

"Oh!" Francis exclaimed, skipping to Alfred's side at the gurney. "Arthur, did you knock him out on purpose just so you didn't have to take care of him?"

"NO!" Arthur shouted in annoyance, rising from his seat. "What on the bloody earth gave you that idea, you twisted frog?"

"I don't know…" Francis replied merging into a seductive tone. "Maybe for another reason too…"

Arthur's face was beet red as he pushed Francis out of the tent and closed the flap behind him. It was a wasted motion though. Slamming a tent flap wasn't nearly as effective as slamming a door. Francis' face appeared a moment later.

"You know Arthur; the American is actually pretty cute."

Arthur strapped the tent shut.

_09:30 December 18, 1940_

Alfred finally awoke from his coma with a startled gasp. He sat up, and tenderly rubbed his aching temples. He looked around from his perch on the gurney to find that he was heavily bandaged around his chest, and his left shoulder was bandaged as well. Sun streamed through the light colored fabric of the tent. Woozy from the bright light, Alfred had shut his eyes and retched over the side of the bed. Stomach acid coated Alfred's throat as he hacked up nothing. Swallowing back sour, Alfred shakily took a breath. He had no idea where he was, and what he was doing there.

From what Alfred remembered, he was an American fighter pilot, he was 19 years old, and he flew in the p-51 Mustang #619. His father was dead, thanks to the New England Hurricane, but his mother was still alive, and lived in New York.

Alfred took another breath. It looked to him like he was in some sort of military recovery center. Knowing that he was stationed in England, he guessed he was in London.

"Why am I injured?" Alfred thought.

Arthur lifted the tent flap at that moment that lead to Alfred's sleeping chambers. Arthur was surprised to find Alfred awake, looking extremely confused.

"Good morning." Arthur said politely. They stared at each other in an uncomfortable silence, the British man standing, the American man lying down. Alfred stared at him with blank eyes.

"Uh…Hi…What happened to my arm?" Alfred finally asked, breaking the tension.

"You were shot." Arthur replied vaguely, walking towards Alfred to tighten his restraints. Alfred grunted from the applied pressure. Arthur didn't apologize.

"That's it?" Alfred said, a smidge of irritation creeping into his voice. Waiting for elaboration, Alfred said, "I was just…shot. You're not going to tell me how, or when, or where I was?"

"Well to be honest," Arthur replied, crossing his arms and furrowing his brow. "I don't know. To my knowledge, and from my observations and your patient file, you were shot in your left shoulder, three of your ribs are broken, one is fractured, you were in a coma for approximately 3 days, and you are possibly mentally unstable."

Alfred blinked in surprise. "3 days? Mentally unstable?"

"Yes" Arthur replied, rearranging the sheets around Alfred so that they covered him better. "By the way, your ribs won't heal for a couple of weeks and you're considered 'dangerous', so you're restricted to the bed."

At that a scowl crossed the American's face.

"That's a long time to be out. And I am NOT crazy man."

"Well, you haven't proven me wrong."

"That's Stupid."

"If you really do believe you're in the right mind, why don't you run around in circles while counting to one hundred?"

"'Cause every _sane_ person does that. Whatever, if this proves to you that I'm not crazy, you got it." Alfred began to wiggle around on the bed, trying to loosen his restraints, but Arthur pushed him back.

"Hey! I was doing what you told me! What's your problem?"

"Alfred, you have three broken ribs, how on earth are you going to stand? It was meant as a test! I wanted to see if you were thinking, and apparently you aren't!"

"Oh…" was the only thing that Alfred said. A moment later, "How do you know my name? And what's your name anyway?"

"Arthur. Arthur Kirkland." The British man replied crisply, trying to ignore the Americans horrid language. "I'm your medic until you're ready to go out and fly again."

_December 20, 1940_

"You know Francis, you aren't actually that bad," Alfred said. "Despite what Arthur says about you, I think you're a pretty cool guy."

"Why thank you mon chere!" The French man replied, "It touches my heart that you think of me outside of what that snobby Englishman says."

This is what Arthur had heard from outside Alfred's medical treatment tent, followed by hysterical laughter and snippets of their following conversation going along the lines of "scones" and "petrified couch stuffing."

Fuming, Arthur turned on his heel and retreated back to his tent for a cup of Earl Gray tea and a scone. Which didn't taste like petrified couch stuffing in his opinion.

_07:15 December 21, 1940_

Arthur walked in the next morning holding a tray and a sheet of paper to find that Alfred was already awake. Francis had convinced Arthur to ask Alfred question on his past, and since Francis had spent more time with him, Arthur decided to listen to him for once. Francis had gone to the Commander's office to receive some important message, so that left Arthur to wake Alfred up. Alfred was lying on his back with his head facing the ceiling of the tent. He fingered something that looked like two silver pins placed over his heart on his hospital gown. Arthur gave a rough cough to get the American's attention.

"Oh, morning Arthur."

"Good Morning, I brought you your breakfast." Arthur set down the tray he was carrying on Alfred's lap, which was loaded high with scrambled eggs and a few English muffins.

"Oh my God! I love you! Thanks!" Alfred beamed, taking in the smell of the scrambled eggs. As Alfred dug into the food, Arthur, who was blushing, moved around to the side of his bed and sat on the gray chair placed there. To Arthur's surprise, when he looked up, all the eggs were gone and Alfred was munching contently on one of the English muffins.

Hiding his surprise, Arthur decided to try and jog the pilot's memory.

"Alfred, do you remember where you're from?"

"Buffalo New York." Alfred said, spewing crumbs as he spoke.

"Do you have family there?"

"Yeah, my Mom."

"What about your Dad, where is he?"

"Six feet under." At this Arthur paused.

"Dead?"

"Dead, thanks to the New England Hurricane."

"Oh." Arthur said. Green eyes flickered down to the paper he had in his hand. It was a document with general information on Alfred and his family; it didn't mention anything about Alfred's Father being dead though. Skimming further down the page, Arthur noticed Alfred had a brother. Mentally checking off his previous question, Arthur resumed his interrogation.

"Do you know where your brother is?"

"Brother?"

"Brother. Don't answer a question with a question Alfred."

"Brother?" Alfred repeated, scratching his blond head. A glassy eyed expression overcame his facial features. "I have a brother?"

"Of course you do Alfred! Answer the question! Where is your brother? Do you even know where he is?" Arthur was standing by this time, fists clenched in frustration.

"Arthur, I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't have a brother. If I did, I'm pretty sure I would remember something as big as that." Alfred replied coolly, putting both hands up in mock surrender.

"You're seriously telling me," Arthur spat, "that you don't even recognize the _existence_ of your brother? _Matthew._"

"Uh…yeah. Who's Matthew?"

"Apparently, someone that you don't know. But tell me this Alfred, do you remember where you got injured, and how?"

"How was I injured?" Alfred asked himself mentally. He closed his eyes in concentration as he tried to think about his experiences before arriving at the London medical treatment camp. Thick gray fog seemed to roll around Alfred as he thought, blocking his access to his memories.

"Who's Matthew?" Alfred thought

_Boom_

"Where is he?"

_Boom_

"Is he really my brother?"

_BOOM_

Distracted by the sudden loud noise, Alfred blinked his eyes open in surprise. Arthur had one enormous eyebrow raised in question.

"So the booming wasn't in my mind…" Alfred thought.

_BOOM BOOM_. Suddenly realizing what the 'booming' meant, Alfred let out a cry of warning.

"Arthur, get under cover! This camp is going to get bombed; I can hear the planes coming!"

The Brits eyes widened in astonishment, and then as the statement sunk in, Arthur froze in fear. Composing himself, Arthur then leapt into action. He hurriedly clambered behind Alfred's gurney and began pushing it out of the tent.

Frantic to stop him, Alfred screamed, "Arthur stop! This gurney is to slow, you have to keep going. Run! Go to the bunkers, save yourself!"

Ignoring Alfred's pleas, Arthur continued to push the American out of the tent.

Upon exiting the tent the two men were faced with a scene that they never forgot. The small makeshift airway that was really a wide street was littered with ash and smoking debris.

Occupants of the London camp scrambled around like ants in the rain, all frantic to avoid debris. Men called out to their companions to try to maintain order, but the sound of the planes overhead, and the explosions in the distant carried their voices away. The buildings in London could be seen on fire, leaving smoke trails that burned miles up into the heavens, turning the sky black.

Francis was nowhere to be found, so the two continued on towards the bunkers. Alfred stared up at the sky with a slightly crazed look on his face. He didn't know why, but he thought that he should be looking up. Suddenly, he saw something he recognized. A dark gray aircraft with the number 619 painted on the bottom of it flew overhead. Everything seemed to slow down as Alfred's eyes traced the planes motion as it made its way across his line of vision. Alfred wondered why he recognized that plane. The fog that had covered Alfred's memories suddenly evaporated, making all of the information come rushing to the front of his eyes. That plane had killed Matthew.

Tears of anger boiled out of Alfred's eyes as he screamed to be released from the gurney. He understood what his brother had wanted him to do right before he had died.

Shocked by Alfred's sudden change of mood, Arthur tried to calm the man down. But he couldn't; Alfred screamed for blood.

Stuck in the middle of a runway, with a crazed man screaming for blood on a gurney, and bombs falling overhead, Arthur was at loss on what to do. Looking around, Arthur saw a bunker covered in dirt for camouflage nearby. Arthur struggled to push Alfred over it. The wind and random debris made Arthur constantly stop and start over and over to get to their destination. All the while Alfred screamed and yelled nonsense about death to the Germans. Deafening explosions made Arthur's heart race.

Francis unexpectedly appeared from behind, and helped Arthur push Alfred through the entrance of the bunker. Relieved to be safe, Arthur sat down on one of the boxes inside the otherwise empty bunker. Dust floated in the air from the shaking of the bombs. Francis exited the bunker before Arthur could thank him. Realizing that Alfred was still screaming his head off, Arthur stood up on wobbly legs and jogged over to the American's side. Alfred had torn relentlessly at the black restraints containing his entire body, making his finger nails rip and leave little speckles of blood on his hospital gown. Arthur seized his wrists, which made Alfred look up with murder in his eyes. His pupils had shrunk so much, that when Arthur first looked, all he saw was ice cold blue. Unnerved, Arthur lessened his grip ever so slightly, allowing Alfred to escape his grasp. Alfred smacked Arthur across the cheek, making stars appear before the Brits eyes. Calling Francis for help, Francis reappeared with a syringe in his hand. Locked and loaded, he proceeded to knock Alfred out. Dizzy from the hit he had received, Arthur sat down on a box.

"Hey, do you know if that chemical you used to knock out Alfred happens to be the one that has a risk of memory loss?" Arthur asked Francis

Francis silhouetted in the doorway, and looking quite serious, shrugged and then disappeared again.

"Great," Arthur thought. Exhausted from all the running, and from dealing with Alfred, Arthur closed his eyes to give himself a moment of peace. Arthur then pondered Alfred's behavior. Coming up with no logical reason, he set his back against the cold block wall, closed his eyes, listened to the bombs falling overhead, the screams of terror coming from the few remaining residence in London, and prayed to God.

_21:39 December 21, 1940_

Arthur's crusty emerald eye cracked open a fraction of an inch to find Francis staring quite sadly at his face. Disturbed by Francis's closeness, Arthur hastily pushed further against the wall about to exclaim what the bloody hell Francis was doing, when Francis shushed him.

"Arthur," Francis whispered in a voice so low Arthur could hardly hear. His French accent was quite noticeable, and thick with emotion. "You will be quite sad, I know, to hear this, so I would like for you to promise to stay silent." A little stunned, Arthur nodded that he would.

Francis's dark blue eyes meet Arthur's green ones. From his pocket, he produced a single sheet of white paper, which seemed to glow eerily in the moon light. Arthur watched Francis intently as he unfolded it, and shifted to a more comfortable position next to Arthur. Francis handed Arthur the paper, so he took it, eager to find out what Francis could not say.

The sheet of paper was addressed to Francis and Arthur, to Arthur's surprise, and was from the Commander. It informed them that Alfred's Brother, Matthew William Jones, was dead. According to the document, he was deemed deceased on December 14, 1940 around 10:00 in a plane crash.

Unsure if the information was correct, Arthur asked, "Francis are you sure that this is true? I mean I know that it would actually make sense that Alfred's Brother was killed by the Germans in a plane crash…but still…it's so horrible."

"It's true Angleterre; Alfred's brother Matthew was indeed killed by ze Germans."

Francis and Arthur were unaware of Alfred, who was lying face up, having just woken up from his second knockout section no more than ten feet away from the two, soaking in every word that they were saying.

"So it's true…" Alfred thought.

_04:21 December 22, 1940_

Arthur woke the next morning exhausted. Finding the bunker door open, Arthur looked outside to find that it was still dark. Arthur didn't see Francis, who was supposedly watching the door of the bunker, but assumed he was just on the other side of the wall. Arthur rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and stifled a yawn that he felt coming. Remaining courteous to the 20 other men still sleeping in the bunker, Arthur silently got up from his resting place next to a box. Focused on not tripping over the men sleeping on the floor, Arthur did not observe his surroundings properly. Skipping over the last man, Arthur walked outside of the bunker into the cool morning air of England. Arthur shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them warm from the nippy weather. Looking around the side of the large metal door of the bunker, Arthur was shocked to find an unconscious man lying face down in the dirt. Arthur hurriedly rushed to the man's side, and discovered it was Francis. He began to shake him but got no response. Arthur turned to look back inside the bunker to see if anyone was awake and could help.

Upon closer inspection, Arthur saw that Alfred was missing from his gurney. Momentarily forgetting Francis, Arthur leaped over his sleeping comrades, heart racing, to the empty gurney. Alfred's restraints were chewed and bloody. Baffled and disgusted, Arthur followed the almost invisible trail of blood back outside the bunker. Larger splatters were visible on and around where Francis laid. But the trail did not stop there; changing back into occasional splatters, the blood trail continued onto the dark runway towards the flight tower. Arthur rolled Francis over, so he could at least breathe, and continued onward, vowing to return to help Francis later. Straining to see the globs of blood, Arthur leaned forward so that he could smell the rubber of the airplanes tires.

Going as fast as he could without losing site of Alfred's path, Arthur soon arrived at the spaces where the airplanes were parked. Parked between buildings, the airplanes were not visible from the air and were safe from bombs. The trail of blood lead to stall #619. Remembering from Alfred's patient file, Arthur realized that this was the stall where Alfred's plane should be parked after the plane had been repaired. It was empty.

Frantic to find his missing patient and friend, Arthur searched the perimeter of the space several times before concluding that Alfred was not there. In his haste, Arthur had overlooked the bloody, dirty, slightly torn sheet of paper lying in the center of it. Holding the paper down from the feint morning breeze were two silver pins. One plane shaped pin read _Matthew William Jones Fighter Pilot #619_. The other read _Alfred F. Jones Fighter Pilot #619_. Arthur was numb as he unfolded the sheet of paper. It was rather short, but Arthur was in tears by the end.

_Dear Arthur,_

_I don't know any other way to say this, but I just had to go. It's not because of you, or Francis, or the way I was being treated. In fact, you guys made me want to stay. You helped keep me alive, even when I didn't want to live. For that I thank you. You must continue executing the good that you did for me. I know that I'm American, and I honestly thought that you hated me when we first meet, but I want you to know that I consider you a friend. Considered, more or less. I can't let you get hurt. _

Reading the letter, Arthur realized that Alfred had indeed become a friend.

_The reason I left was simple: to avenge Matthew's death. I saw the plane that killed him. For some reason, that brought the memories of Matthew's death back to the surface. I have to destroy that plane. That man killed my brother; I'm not going to just let him walk away. _

_Tell Francis that I didn't mean to hit him that hard, but what can I say, he was in my way. _

_Alfred F. Jones_

_Finish the job_

_December 23, 1940_

Arthur sat at the mess hall the next morning. Reading the attendance board, he then picked up the notices for the London camp. Taking a sip of his Earl Gray tea, he read down the tribute for the bombing that had just occurred. Reading the page slowly, his eyes took in the faces of the men reported dead or missing. His eyes stopped when he reached the tributes for the recently deceased. Suddenly his tea tasted sour, and Arthur almost spit it out.

Alfred F. Jones and Matthew W. Jones were listed together. Arthur read the article word for word, finally finding out why he had been assigned to Alfred, while so many of his comrades had been responsible for multiple men. He learned that Alfred and his brother had been American double agent and German infiltrators.

"So that's why I didn't know…" Arthur thought "He was a spy, and they really wanted him to live too…"

At the bottom of the article it read:

Matthew W. Jones, Fighter Plane #619: MIA; Alfred F. Jones, Fighter Plane #619:MIA


End file.
